


A Bell Cannot Be Unrung

by KipRussel



Series: Grow Brighter continuity [3]
Category: Control (Video Game)
Genre: Dylan wrestles with a bit too much for his mind to wrap around, Gen, Grow Brighter Continuity, I hope at least skejhfsekfhsef, Jesse Faden (mentioned), a fic of mine that assumes Dylan is awake from his coma, and not paint him one dimensionally, angsty, crying over Dylan Faden hours, delving into some Hissed topics so, ignoring grammar rules for the sake of character thought/narrative, no beta readers we die like we got a mail tube thrown at our head, rated T bc its just a smidge heavy, this is set post-game and post-Grow Brighter, trying to touch on the complexities of his character, weird thought-based 'dialogue' in italics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29189865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KipRussel/pseuds/KipRussel
Summary: You cannot unring a bell— an introduced idea cannot be totally forgotten. Pope said the Hiss 'changed his physiology'. He swears he can feel the resonance still echo in him, still ringing, still haunting him. Dylan sits wide awake at night barely aware of the dark world around him, consumed with fear and anxiety.Where did the Hiss end and he begin?
Relationships: Dylan Faden & Jesse Faden
Series: Grow Brighter continuity [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033119
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	A Bell Cannot Be Unrung

**Author's Note:**

> (This is set post-game and post-Grow Brighter, a fic of mine that you don't have to read to read this, you just have to being willing to accept Dylan is now awake and living in an apartment in New York with his sister).

Panoptic means seeing as a whole. 

Dylan remembers the latin root. He learned it. At some point. He can’t remember when.

He feels very seen. 

He also sees a lot. A ‘Panoptic’ himself. He sees too much. He cannot keep track of it all, slipping through his mind out of his grasp, over the edge, into the dark, into anxiety and fear, into nothing.

He doesn’t remember waking up. He is vaguely aware of his breathing, throat tight, swallowing, trying to remember to blink. He sits up straight in his bed, clutching the sheets, eyes wide and staring forward.

A Panopticon capitalizes on people fearing being watched. Being watched and being seen are very different, he has learned. He didn’t used to be seen. Just watched. He thought he wanted to be seen. Understood.

The Hiss is not understanding. The Hiss burns in his mind, loose tendrils of long forgotten nightmares that whisper and hint at meaning and clarity he can never grasp. They escape by the time he wakes up again, drenched in sweat and shaking, mind racing and muddled and frustrated over things he cannot even name or understand.

You cannot unring a bell— an introduced idea cannot be totally forgotten. Pope said the Hiss 'changed his physiology'. He swears he can feel the resonance still echo in him, still ringing, still haunting him. It rattles his being, his bones, his teeth. He clenches his jaw and stares forward and feels the tears streak down his face.

Where does he end and the Hiss begin? 

He chose.

That haunts him.

He chose to be infected.

He wanted it. _You want this to be true._ He wanted to be free, to escape, to get out, to let go of control and just let it take over and guide him and use him because they wanted the same things he thought, he thought, he thought.

Sometimes he remembers very clearly, being possessed by the Hiss. It scares him more, knowing that he agreed, that he just let it, that he still finds himself agreeing at times. Distant, but raw. All emotion turned up to the highest setting. He thought he knew how he felt. He still doesn’t know. He burns with anger and fear and wants to lash out at someone, anyone, anything, something. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand, _I don’t understand, I don’t get it, I don’t, I—_

He _misses_ it. But he doesn’t at all. It was burning and confusion and pain and fear and wrong but it felt so _right._ It made sense, and now it does not. Did it ever make sense?

Is there even an ending and beginning? Is he just Hiss? Was he never Hiss at all? It bleeds, it oozes, _you were always this way, you will never be the same, you are not yourself, you have always been this and the Hiss made it loud, the Hiss made it known, you’ve always been the new you._

A scorched earth policy. _Is that the option? Scorched earth_ what _? Me? My friends? Friends. Don’t fool yourself. It’s too good to be true. The Hiss was too good to be true. You are the scorched earth, burn the rest as well. No, no, no, no._

Loss of control seemed like freedom, like sweet escape, like answers. It wasn’t. There were none. _Maybe there are. Maybe I’m just like this. Maybe I always was. Maybe I’m new now. You’ve always been the new you._

He dreams.

Panoptic means to see the whole as it is.

His dreams are just as confusing. Dreams had felt real. _Do_ feel real. It muddles with memory and monotony and horror and he cannot parse any of it into sense. 

_Maybe the real is a dream and the dream is real._

He hates it, he _hates it I hate them I hate everyone I hates how fake they are its all fake everyone none of it makes sense I want to rest I want to understand I want answers but it’s all just taunting and endless and out of reach and I can never make it and I can’t understand and none of it makes sense and it hurts and it’s wrong but it might be right and what if it is what if I am right why did I want it when no one else did everyone else hated it and I miss it I hate it and I miss it I want it back but I don’t I can’t control myself what would happen—_

He feels someone grab his hands and he floods back into his apartment bedroom and its suddenly so loud. He can hear his ragged breathing rife with tears and the ghosting whispered words still on his tongue and the traffic outside in the dead of night and the old pipes and his sister is saying something and Polaris is spinning circles around her head and Dylan defensively hisses _I hate you_ to them both and hears himself say it and regrets the unfiltered thought and doesn’t want to face it or her and instantly and draws in on himself.

It’s quiet, finally. He tries to breathe.

“Dylan?” his sister asks. A question. Questions he doesn’t know the answer to. (Questions she doesn’t know how to ask). “I heard you talking to yourself, I— do you want me to stay?” He feels the weight of her knees dip the foot of the mattress.

Jesse. Does he want her to stay?

“Yes,” he whispers, sniffling, straightening himself out, pulling himself back together.

She doesn’t ask any questions he finds stupid like _are you okay_ or _do you need anything_ or _what happened._

She doesn’t have to say anything at all.

She understands.

Dylan takes another shaky breath and blinks the sleep away.

Jesse doesn’t have all the answers, but Jesse feels at peace. Maybe not at peace. Content? Settled? Willing?

The Bureau described synchronicity as a shared understanding between two people, like twins, or soldiers on the battlefield.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and lets the cool relief of dawn push away all the terror. Jesse sits with him. It’s all he can ask for.

He doesn’t even have to ask.

Being seen feels raw. But he sees her back. He is scared of what she sees. But she doesn’t seem scared. She doesn’t run screaming. She doesn’t lock him away and forget about him. No scorched earth.  
  


You cannot unring a bell— but the reverberation and resonance can fade, and something new can fill the air.

**Author's Note:**

> A oneshot directly following this one is coming— one with a bit of resolution for all these fears swirling around Dylan's head.


End file.
